These Nati Eyes - Tavita Ngata

I’m sitting in my office in Taranaki listening to Radio Ngati Porou on the net, pondering all those funny questions in life in no particular order or rationale.  Glenn Miller is playing and memories of Papa Len Jeep, Uncle Harold Puha and the rest of the Mongrel Gang come to mind.  Uncle Ronnie Ngata and his sax, plenty of guitars and a ukulele, and that unmistakable sound of Ngati Porou waiata in full swing, bring back memories of Te Araroa and Maraehara.  K.D. waking up thinking he was blind because someone put his patch over his good eye. Peeling spuds in the kauta and that unmistakable rattle that a crate makes, and pretending you can handle square gin.  I had plenty of Nannies and babysitters, Bea and Gah, Uncle Bobby and his buses, fridges for letter boxes, horses, dogs and pig hunting, those were the days.  People would ask me how come our place at Awatere was called “Broken Fire?” Why is it I call Te Araroa home when I spent most of my life back of Whatatutu? Why do I get so excited every time I go home? Why did Aunty Ira blink so much? How come I have cousins called Sing Fu and Blackie to name a few? And how come I still don’t know their real names? Why do Naati from all over find the need to connect and then understand who you are?  And why is it I get asked to kill for hui here in Taranaki? And why do I hate that word “Naki?”  And why do I find myself facilitating for community here on this side of the island? And why is it that most people I network with here in Taranaki have some connection with Ngati Porou or are Natis? And why are Maori suspicious of Maori? And why do I miss my horses and still work my dogs?  And why am I happiest when I am on the land? I’m buggered if I know...but it must be these Nati eyes!